


where the heart is

by Sorrel



Series: anywhere you're gonna be, that's where I wanna be [3]
Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Companion Piece, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorrel/pseuds/Sorrel
Summary: "The only god Stinger ever prayed to was the Legion, and the only rites he ever performed were 'Honor, Duty, Sacrifice.'"The Legion might have been Stinger's home, but it wasn't his family.





	where the heart is

Stinger would be the first person to warn you that he's a bit of an asshole. He curses too much, doesn't much care what people think of him, pays attention to authority only when it suits him and has only the fuzziest sense of the appropriate. Which is bad enough, except all of his friends are assholes too, so they tend to egg him on. It's a problem.

That being said, he is actually aware of all this, thanks, because he's not fucking stupid, which is why he normally does try to engage at least some form of internal filter when he's talking to civilians or people he doesn't know. In the greater scheme of things, though, he thinks he can probably be forgiven for the fact that his first response at being told he's going to be a father is to laugh in the woman's face.

"Oh, girlie, are you ever barking up the wrong tree," he says, when he gets his laughter under control. "Don't you know anything? You're sooner to get water on the moon than you are to get viable DNA out of a splice."

The woman - Donna, Dana, something like that - just rolls her eyes and slaps a sheave against his chest. "Thanks for the condescension, dickhole, but I wouldn't waste my time on you for a scam even if I cared enough to run one. I'm not stupid."

"So what's this then?" he says, and examines the sheave. It looks like a gene-scan, but-

"It's a gene-scan," she says impatiently. He can only vaguely remember sleeping with her thanks to all the alcohol in his system, but if she was anything like she is now, he's not surprised that it took that many drinks to get him to go home with her. (Well, back to her flitter, he didn't care enough to go any further than the parking lot.) She's kind of a bitch - but hell, that's about par for the course with zooies. Half of 'em want to play pale and fragile and be conquered, and the other half just want to treat you like a pet they can take home for a night and rough up a bit. Stinger has an unfortunately ability to collect the latter sort. Flix calls it _punishment for his sins._ "I took the standard test at the clinic and it popped with some abnormalities, and when they did the follow-up imprint it came up with you as the other contributor, according to Legion records."

"Oh," Stinger says. Dina - that's her name, Dina! - raises a supercilious eyebrow.

"Oh indeed. Somehow your splicer fucked up your sterilization. Congrats, you have spawn."

He looks back down at the sheave. Blond hair, blue eyes. Secondary _mellis_ splice characteristics, severity unknown. Female.

A daughter, a bloody _daughter._

"And there's no trace of-"

"Lover, if they'd found evidence of any abnormalities, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He takes a breath. "Why _are_ we having this conversation?"

For the first time since she walked into his office, Dina's expression softens. "Look, I don't want kids. I don't have the time or the temperament. My implant just happened to redscreen at the same time I was sleeping with a splice with a botched sterilization, making _this,_ " and she places a palm over her still-flat belly, "about a one in a million chance. And I have some idea what a kid might mean for a splice."

_One in a million_ doesn't even begin to cover it, really. And she has no fucking _idea_ what it means to someone like him.

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm willing to sign a waiver and do an extraction with a creche facility instead of termination," she says with a shrug. "I don't know if it's something you'd want, but I figured the least I could do is offer."

"Yes," he says, without even thinking about it.

"What, just like that?"

Aw fuck, he has no idea what he's doing. Can he even _afford_ nine months of creche development? How the fuck is he going to handle child care? He's a bloody _Legionnaire,_ for fuck's sake, what the fuck is he going to do with a child?

But he wants her. He doesn't even know why; it's not as if he's particularly family-minded. His ma was never in the picture and his da was a piece of shit till he got himself blown up somewhere halfway across the 'gyre and he's never been particularly inclined to pass along that glorious legacy to an unsuspecting third generation, but he looks down at the dry recitation of statistics on the gene-print and thinks, _That is my daughter. Somebody needs to take care of her._

And now that he's been made aware, regs will require him to get his sterilization redone. This is very probably his only chance. Most Legionnaires don't make it to retirement, one way or another.

"Just like that," he says firmly. "Do you need me to sign something, or...?"

She nods towards the sheave still in his hands. "It's all there. Read it over, verify and send on to my advocate. She'll notify you as soon as the arrangements are made."

"Right," he says, and after a moment's hesitation, holds out his hand. "I appreciate this."

"It's nothing much to me," she says, but she takes his hand, shakes it.

"Maybe. But it's everything to me."

###### 

Or maybe that's not where our story starts, really. Maybe our story starts in a cramped, dingy office, where Stinger has his desk shoved as far forward as it can go to make room for the mini holo-table he snagged at a brutal discount at one of the market stalls on Orus. Kiza is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of it, working more-or-less diligently on her homework, and one of his sergeants is lounging in the one visitor's chair crammed between his desk and the door, his boots up on the front edge of the desk and his hands tucked behind his shaggy dark head, being a fucking pain in the ass. Stinger is trying diligently to finish a stack of paperwork before he can officially sign off for his leave, and Mischa is fucking with his productivity.

"I'm tellin' ya, Cap, you're going to have to suck it up at some point."

"Give me one good reason why," Stinger says, not looking up from his screen. He promised Kiza he'd take her to the gardens tomorrow, which is the only reason she's sitting still now. He has better things to do.

Mischa grins his asshole grin and stretches out the toe of one boot to nudge against the cup of styluses perched dangerously close to the corner. Stinger steadies it with one hand while thumbing his print onto a series of duty rosters with the other, not even bothering to look up. "You being a prick is not actually an answer."

"Because if you don't pick somebody, then the brass are going to pick for you, and you won't be happy with who they pick."

This is, actually, a valid point. Stinger's been putting off selecting a new lieutenant after his last one promoted out to a less interesting unit, but Mischa's right and there's only so long that he can keep going without a full unit. At least it's just a lieutenant, rather than one of his soldiers. Not anyone _important._

"It's not like we actually need one, you know," Stinger grumbles. "Who the fuck actually wants some wet-behind-the-ears Academy asshole who doesn't know one end of a plasma pistol from the other?"

"Didn't you graduate from the Academy, _Captain?_ "

"Only because I couldn't pay back the creche on what you poor slobs make. And I was never a bloody _Lieutenant._ Fast-tracked to Captain based on years of service, ta ever so."

"Truly we are blessed with your presence," Mischa says, and ducks the stylus that Stinger throws at his head. (There's a reason he needs an entire cup of spares on his desk.) "Seriously though, you should pick somebody. What if we get stuck with someone like Attick again?"

"Oh fuck _that,_ " Stinger says, with great feeling. Mischa clears his throat and nods over his shoulder at Kiza who is cheerfully ignoring both of them.

"I thought you were trying to keep it clean for the little bit?"

"Ah, it's too late for that, really." It was probably too late the day he took her home. Even the care center has given up sending him strongly-worded letters about it. "Seriously, though, not going through that again. What the fuck were they thinking, putting a _human_ in the 'jackers?"

"And this is my point," Mischa says. "Pick someone not-too-terrible before you get saddled with another daddy's boy fuck-up."

"Oh yes, in all of my free time," Stinger grouses. "I'm on leave, you know. I have shit to take care of."

"Aren't you lucky you have a good sergeant, then?"

Stinger stares at him as Mischa pulls out a sheave and tosses it to him. He frowns over the desk, then picks it up. "The fuck is this?"

"Your new lieutenant, if you have any sense," Mischa says, unperturbed as always by Stinger's annoyance. "Just take a look."

The file pre-loaded on the sheave is Wise, Lieutenant Caine. Graduated from the Academy four years ago, been in eight units in that time, specializes in tracking and extraction... Stinger reads down a few lines before rolling his eyes so hard they practically de-socket.

"Really, Misch? You're tryin' to sell me on a bloody lycantant?"

"He's an omega," Mischa says with relish. "Not a severance headcase, but a full solo, from hatch. You know what that means."

He does know. A lycantant who loses their alpha only rarely manages to survive the severance shock and tends to be useless afterwards, but omegas who've never had pack bonds go one of two ways: either they go nova or they get hard, well before full growth, and the rare few that make it adulthood tend to be dedicated, aggressive, and still easily controlled by a strong personality. Basically, the ideal soldier.

Their kind isn't the sort that usually takes to the wing, but neither do ursies and look at Mischa. _Fearless_ is the most important qualifier for a skyjacker, and an omega lycantant usually doesn't have anything to fear because they don't actually give much of a shit about living.

It's the last thing that worries Stinger the most. _Fearless_ shouldn't be the same as _suicidal,_ but skyjackers are crazy enough that it's impossible to tell the difference till you're shoulder to shoulder with a bastard, ready to jump into empty atmo.

"He's a fuckin' runt," Stinger says instead, because that is also a valid concern. "Not even twenty hands? Sixteen stone? And look at this!" He holds up the image. "He doesn't even look lycan."

"Which is why the Wise hatchery sold him at a loss," Mischa says, a sly grin on his face. "They contract directly with the Vanguard, and the Vanguard didn't want him. So he got kicked back to Central, who waffled a bit, threw up their hands, and made him take the TAT."

The Targeted Aptitude Test is usually reserved for baselines who weren't bred for a specific purpose, but the occasional troublesome splice has been known to sit for it when they're not working out in their designated unit. Why waste assets when you can shuffle them around instead?

"So?"

"Scored highly enough on all the usual suspects that the 'jackers were willing to put up for Academy fees in order to get him rank enough to work solo. That's why he's got so many reassignments - he usually only signs on for a half-year at most, in between 'special projects' from the brass."

"And you think that some mutt-puppy reject who can't hold down a unit is exactly what we need as a secondary officer," Stinger says, very flatly. "This is your brilliant bloody idea."

"It's not my fault you can't see the big picture, now, is it?"

"Misch," Stinger says warningly. Mischa holds up his hands.

"Look, you don't want a lieutenant, right? They're useless, obnoxious, and breaking them in stops being fun after a few years. Yes?"

"Yeah, so..."

"So, this one's frickin' perfect," Mischa says. "He'll only be here for a few months and then you'll have another six, at least, before the brass shove another baby down our throats. And somebody already broke 'im in. Several somebodies, even. And you know what lycantants are like, show him a bit of fang and he'll roll over and show his belly. Hell, he might even be half-decent, you never know."

"Any decent lieutenant would be a captain after three years."

Mischa shrugs. "Not everyone longs for the burdens of command."

"Ah, piss off." He studies the sheave again and scowls. "Fuck, Mischa, he's a bloody teenager!"

"Lycantants have an accelerated creche program, c'mon, you know that. It's not like he hasn't seen action."

Stinger's about to reply with some of the action Mischa's mother has seen lately, but a little hand on his elbow startles him out of it. He look down to see Kiza standing there, tugging on his sleeve, and he automatically shifts to wrap his arm around her skinny little shoulders, tugging her close against his side.

"What's up, little bit?"

"I'm bored," she declares. He has to bite down on a smile.

"Me too, sweetheart. But you know we've both got homework to finish."

She gets that sly look that she always does when she's trying to pull one over on him. He hasn't the heart to tell her that she's not any better of a liar than he is, which is to say: not at all.

"I thought maybe I could help you with _your_ homework, and then you could help me with _my_ homework, and then we can go home."

Translation: she's tired of doing math problems and wants him to finish it for her, but if she offers to "help" him with his work then it seems more like an even trade. A poor liar she might be, but she's got the basics of working a barter down solid. He shoots an amused look at Mischa, who just spreads his hands in a shrug.

"Hey man, she's got a point."

"All right, then, little bit," he says, and tilts the sheave so that she can see Lieutenant Wise's file. "What do you think about this one?"

She studies it for a moment, then looks back up at him. "For what?"

"A new officer for my unit."

"Like Loo Attick?"

Stinger grimaces. "Hopefully less annoying."

"He's a lycan," she says, scrolling down the front screen. "I've never met one of those."

The Vanguard and the skyjackers don't really tend to overlap much, which is probably for the best, all things considered. And thanks to the vagaries of Legion life, she hasn't really met that many people that aren't either 'jackers themselves or officer's children. Most of them are baselines, regs being what they are.

"They don't usually look quite like him. Most of them tend to be a little bigger." He looks back down at the sheave and snorts. "A lot bigger."

"They're usually darker, too," Mischa puts in. "From his creche, anyway. Wise stock have that trademark blue-black fur. Part of their branding bullshit."

"So this one is..."

"Albino on his lycan side, yeah," Mischa says, and grins. "Drove the price down further, or so I hear."

"Mischa..." Stinger growls. If his sergeant pulls any more random defects out of his ass about this kid, he's going to kick the bastard _and_ his file right the hell out of his office.

Mischa holds up his hands. "It's not like it affects his performance, you know. Unlike your drinking problem."

" _My_ drinking problem? You're the one who-"

"Da," Kiza says patiently, and waits till she has his attention before she touches the sheave again. "I like him. You should get this one."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Well, he's blonde, like me," she says logically. Stinger arches his eyebrows, looks attentive, and manages not to laugh based on years of practice. "So that's pretty great. And I'd like to meet a lycantant, even a weird one, because you keep telling me that I need new experiences."

"The lady has a point," Mischa says.

"And nobody else wants him, so it'd be like doing a good deed."

Suddenly Stinger doesn't feel so much like laughing anymore. He looks over at Mischa, who offers a minute shrug, and then back to his daughter. "What makes you say that, bit?"

She gives him a look like, _why are you so stupid, da, why are you making me explain this to you._ He gets that look from her a lot, these days. She's growing up so fucking fast. "He never left on his own."

Stinger checks the file and sure enough, not a single one of the _eight_ reassignments have been at Wise's request. All of them were either at the behest of the captain, citing unit cohesion regs, or because they managed to fill the position while he was on solo assignment. And Stinger knows his own kind full well, and if _he_ doesn't like dealing with new lieutenants, he knows damn well that the odds of eight separate captains either wasting their 'unit cohesion' card or scrambling to find a new second officer over the course of a three-week solo detachment are astronomical.

It's another strike against him, really, because who the fuck knows what kind of personality problems the kid has to get people treating him like poison. But there's no flags in his record, and his evals, when Stinger scrolls down to them quickly, come up clean enough with nothing but some tendencies towards social isolation and unwillingness to challenge authority, which isn't much of a surprise. It'd be nice to have someone on his team to just do what he fuckin' tells them to do, for a change. All of his people are unrepentant insubordinate assholes.

And Kiza's right. Nobody else wants him. Maybe that wouldn't have mattered ten years ago, but Stinger's a lot more susceptible to sentiment since he has a kid. Plus, it's not like Mischa's wrong - worst comes to worst, they'll have him for a few months and then if he's terrible, well, Stinger has a few "unit cohesion" cards of his own to spend, especially after putting up with Attick for a full year, and all of his other people are golden, so he might as well spent it on this, if he needs to.

"All right," he says, and ruffles his hand through Kiza's hair. She stopped letting him cut it a few months back, and it's just starting to get long enough to hang under its own weight instead of sticking out like a fuzzy golden halo. She's so proud of being able to brush it straight that he takes every opportunity to mess it up while she's still too sweet to hit him for it. "We'll give him a try, little bit, since you like him so much." He arches an eyebrow at Mischa. "Satisfied?"

"Satisfied is what I'm going to be later when I-" He stops, looks down at Kiza who is staring up at him with a curious expression, and clears his throat. "File this paperwork for you," he finishes, only a little bit belatedly. "Because we will have a new lieutenant and we'll all be happier with the brass off our backs about it."

"The brass isn't on _your_ back, the hell are you talking about," Stinger grumbles. "I'm the one getting reams of messages about that shit."

"Yeah, but you're no fun when you're grumpy," Mischa says, and easily ducks another thrown stylus. "Buck up, would you? You might even like the kid."

"Yeah, what are the chances of _that,_ " Stinger says, and puts his thumb to the transfer request.

###### 

Or maybe that's not the beginning of our story, either. Maybe it's here-

"WHO'S THE _FUCKING_ CHAMPION?" Stinger roars, and hears back "WE ARE!" from eight other throats, right before mugs slam back onto the bar.

-in a Legion pub, the night of the Standards run, and Stinger is riding _high_ from their third consecutive win. Not that his squad's ever been anything but the best, obviously, but with a string of shite lieutenants they never used to score very well in the sims. These days, though. These days nobody can touch them.

The secret to their success wanders up a bit later after they've finished their toasting and dispersed, fresh from from the booth at the back where he's been for the last half-hour, chatting with some chit with vivid red hair and a beauty mark on the lower curve of her cheek. Stinger raises his eyebrow and smirks. "Hit the 'oh' moment, eh? Yours or hers?"

Caine blinks at him for a moment before snorting. "That's Commander Enska, Sting. The Marshall of Warrants."

"So, hers, then," Stinger says dryly, and claps him on the shoulder when Caine gives him a sour look. "I mean, there's out of your league and then there's out of the bloody galaxy, but I suppose if you really wanted to work it you could probably change her-"

"I was giving her my _report,_ old man," Caine interrupts, exasperated and fond. "Since you didn't exactly give me a chance to debrief before you dragged me off to the sims."

"D'you expect me to say sorry? We bloody won! Again! What I want to know if what they were doing sending you out on assignment right before the Standards? Somebody was tryin' to sabotage us, I tell you. Probably that bastard Tildis in the Fifth."

"Yeah, sure, Sting, Captain Tildis is responsible for the Federation Bomber resurfacing right before the Standards," Caine says with a roll of his eyes. "You're paranoid, you know that?"

"It's only paranoia if someone isn't actually out to get you," Stinger says darkly. But he magnanimously decides to let it go, slings an arm around Caine's neck and drags him up to the bar. Caine runs hot, like all splices, and he's pleasantly warm and solid pressed against Stinger's side, a few inches taller and well-muscled. "Well, if you're done with that shite, it's time to get you good and drunk, m'lad. You're the hero of the bloody hour."

"You were the one doing all the shooting, Cap," Caine says, but he lets himself be dragged willingly enough. It's one of Stinger's favorite things about him, how beautifully biddable he is when Stinger asks. He's had more than a few idle thoughts along those lines over the years, and they're getting a little more difficult to quash every time. "I just covered your six."

_Just covered your six,_ Caine says, as if Stinger's ever flown with anyone who could pull off that much. _Mellis_ reflexes are second to none, but even so Caine makes for a rare commodity in a pilot: daring, determined, and incredibly responsive, to his unit in general and to Stinger in particular. Stinger doesn't know if it's some factor of his genomgineering, some beta instinct that never had a chance to fully form, or if it's just something unique to Caine, solitary and awkward and desperate for someone to belong to. Mostly, he doesn't much care. He's just happy to have gotten the kid before too many people could ruin him.

"Well, don't sell yourself short," he says, and waves down the bartender, jerks his thumb to himself and to Caine. The synth nods, pulls down a pair of fresh mugs and starts pulling a pint. "You missed all the toasting, so you'll just have to make do with me getting you bloody lit."

"You're a fair ways there yourself, old man," Caine says, teasing. "And don't get your hopes up, I'm only having the one before I head back to base."

"What's that?" Stinger says, cupping a hand to his ear. "I think I must be going deaf. I must be, because I thought I just heard you say that you're going to have a single, measly little drink with your old captain and then toddle off to bed, like some sort of Fleet a-hole who has no sense of-"

"I'm going back to base," Caine interrupts, "because I've been up for two days straight and if I don't get some sleep soon I'm going to fall over."

It takes the wind right out of his sails, and Stinger deflates with a huff. "Ah, hell, pup, why didn't you say something earlier?"

Caine shrugs, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "It's fine, Sting, not like I didn't want that nice shiny commendation on my record, either."

"Yeah, but-" Stinger runs out of words, shrugs helplessly. He can be an asshole, sure, but the last thing he wants to do is fuck up his people. Caine's his as surely as any other in the squad, and more than most; and between him and the Marshall they tend to ask too much of him because he's bad at saying no. Stubborn, sure, but eager to please. Stinger has to work not take advantage of that, and it looks like he fucked that up today.

Not much he can do about it now, just move on and try to do better next time. "You at least got the murdering prick?"

"Signed, sealed, delivered to the Aegis for processing last night," Caine says, with satisfaction. "Bastard holed himself up on this miserable little mudhole of a planet in Gamma, but he didn't hire much in the way of security. Worst part was the rain."

Any 'jacker hates rain: it's cold, it's loud, it interferes with visibility, and it's usually accompanied by lightning. Plus the water tends to wash away scent trails, and Caine _hates_ that.

"Poor pup," Stinger says, and grabs the mugs the synth slides them, nudges one into Caine's hand. "Well, it's over now and you've done the impossible as always, so get that down your throat and I'll head back with you."

"Aw, you don't have to do that," Caine protests, exactly as Stinger knew he would. "'m fine."

"Well, maybe I'm not," Stinger retorts, and takes a swing of his beer, hand-signs for the tab to the synth. "Who's going to get a drunkard like me back to base, eh? Definitely not one of the lads, they're all worse off than me."

Caine spares a glance to the big round table at the back, where the rest of the squad are lining up shot glasses in front of Vector and drumming their hands on the table. "You may have a point there."

"Besides, you're my ride up shipside tomorrow, and Kiza'll kill me if I misplace you before then."

"I'm your..." Caine tilts his head in confusion, then his eyes widen. "Leave starts tomorrow!" he blurts.

Stinger arches a brow at him. "Don't tell me you forgot."

"I've been a little busy the past couple weeks," Caine retorts, but sighs. "Aw, fuck, I haven't even packed anything. _Balls._ "

"Eh, transport's not till ten, you'll have plenty of time in the morning," Stinger says dismissively. Then he narrows his eyes. "Just tell me you're not thinkin' of backing out."

"And risk Kiza's wrath? No." But Caine gets that soft, worried look he does sometimes, when he starts to think that maybe he's overstepping his bounds, that he should back off before someone tells him he's not wanted. "You're sure that-"

"I'm sure that I'll kill you if Kiza doesn't if you try to dip out at the last bloody minute," Stinger says. "Seriously, pup, how many times do we have to tell you you're welcome?"

Caine's face says that the answer is _every bloody time for the rest of eternity,_ which, all right, not like Stinger is averse, particularly. He's willing to beat some facts into Caine's head as many times as it takes. But it bothers him, every time, how hesitant Caine gets, how unwilling he is to believe that someone wants him around. Maybe Stinger didn't think much of Caine when he first took him on, but it's been four years and he bloody loves that kid, what the hell does Caine think he's going to do, kick him to the curb? No.

"Maybe just the once more," Caine says softly, and Stinger grabs the back of his neck, pulls his head down so that he can butt their foreheads together, a firm tap that's as much admonishment as reassurance. Caine's familiar splice-and-musk smell fills his nose, and he takes a deep breath, lets it linger on his tongue.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, pup," he says, and gives Caine's neck a firm squeeze before he lets go. A bit of distance seems like a good idea, all of a sudden. "C'mon, finish your drink and we'll get out of here. It might do me some good to get some real sleep for a change."

_And do me some good to get some fresh air,_ Stinger thinks. He's had a bit more to drink than he thought, if he's going about _sniffing_ his lieutenant like some baby splice fresh off the needle, too many new senses and not enough common fucking sense. Wouldn't do to get too obvious about it, not with Caine as nervy as he is, sometimes. The 'jackers don't get too tangled up about frat regs, unlike those Fleet assholes, but Caine's not the kind for a casual fuck in-unit. He'll let himself get picked up by a zooey now and then, if it's been a while and he's getting hot under the collar, but even that seems more a formality than anything, like he's going through the motions more than because he actually enjoys it.

There's some people whose lines you can cross, and some people you can't. Caine's always been the kind to have real big lines, and Stinger's never been quite bold enough to test the edges. Last thing he wants to do is scare the kid off, not now that he's finally got him broken in proper. There's nothing but good times ahead, him and Caine, and he'll take it however it comes.

###### 

It's only eight months until Caine snaps and kills an Entitled, and our story, for the time being, comes to a momentary halt.

###### 

And resumes, quite abruptly, here: stumbling up from his porch at the sound of someone's confused shouting, his head ringing from the force with which Caine shoved it through the railing and the low excited thrum of the bees, and looking over to see a confused young woman in the middle of the swarm with a face he vaguely remembers from news flicks: _Senseless Murder Still Unsolved!,_ _The Three Primaries: Where Are They Now?_ , that sort of thing. Her hair is a natural dark color that her predecessor would have disdained - she was known for her love of bright colors, and changed her hair, eyes, and skin on a regular basis - but the girl is still, unmistakably, a near-exact copy of Her Majesty the Queen, Seraphi of House Abrasax.

Her worry changes to delighted laughter as she swings her hands through the swarm, watches them follow her movements. _Bees can recognize royalty,_ Stinger thinks, and can feel it churning in his belly, the knowledge of what she is. It's in the thrilled humming of his hives, bred and born and grown over the half-decade he's lived in this house, in the magnetic pull they exert on the very bones of him. Unlike his small brethren, he's not coded to recognize the full codex of royal gene-prints kept on file at the Hall of Records, but he's closer to his hives than he generally likes to admit. He can't feel the pull of her as they can, but he can feel it through them, the joyous, synchronized hum of _Queen, Queen, Queen!_

He falls to his knees in the grass. "Your Majesty," he says, and stares up at her, even though properly, he should be bowing his head in recognition. He just can't seem to make himself look away from her face. He's never seen a Recurrence - of course he hasn't, the last known Recurrence was something like nineteen thousand years ago - and it hits him unexpectedly hard, the knowledge of what exactly is standing in his front yard, the warm flush to her cheeks, the bloom of true, natural youth on her skin. He can't tear his eyes from her.

It means that he sees the delight fade away into confusion as she looks down at him, sees her lips form an echo of his words, not quite spoken: _your majesty...?_ Sees her gaze light on his face and then slide past, over his shoulder, to where Caine is still standing a ways behind him. Sees her flinch from whatever she sees on Caine's face, and then back down to him.

"Please don't do that," she says, swallowing hard, and when he doesn't stand fast enough for her, she actually reaches out and grabs him by the collar, tugs upwards until he complies. "Someone please explain what's going on here, okay? And use the little words for the poor Earth girl who doesn't know what the fuck is going on."

He doesn't make any effort to pull away from her grip on his shirt, and she drops her hands away, too-fast and clumsy, when she realizes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just-" And she swings around, looks over his shoulder. "Caine," she says, and she sounds like she's begging. "Caine, please tell me what's wrong."

Caine doesn't answer. Distantly, Stinger realizes that pup probably _can't_ answer; he's never been good at using his words when the going gets rough, and he doubts that's changed after a half-decade on a penal planet. Part of him is inclined to leave the bastard swinging, but the rest of him is already straightening up, stepping between them, his old instincts answering to the thick spill of awkward emotion in the space between them.

"Nothing's wrong," he answers her, and from the look on her face she'd really rather hear it from Caine, but after a moment she swallows hard, nods in acknowledgement. "I can explain."

"Oh good, I like explanations," she says faintly. She crosses her arms over her middle, hugs herself like she's cold instead of wearing a flannel shirt in the middle of August. "I hope you're ready to explain a lot, 'cause it's been a really weird day."

"I bet," and he does. He can smell blood on Caine, and they both smell faintly of river water, soot, and flitter fuel, which tells him that they've had something of an adventurous evening. Probably someone tried to kill them. Caine has that effect on people. "Why don't you come inside out of the heat, get something cold to drink-" He shoots a look at Kiza, who _for once in her life_ doesn't argue but turns and goes inside to get something out of the kitchen. "-and we'll sort this out. That sound good?"

"That sounds _great,_ " she says, and glances furtively over his shoulder, where Caine is still lurking. "But you should look after Caine first. He's injured."

"We can definitely do that," Stinger says, and inclines his head towards the house. Confused or not, he's not walking in front of a royal. "Come on, then, your majesty. It doesn't look like much but I promise we do have cooling units."

"Okay," she says, and gives another lingering, longing look towards Caine, before she bites her lip and turns away, heading up into the house.

###### 

And there's another beginning here, though Stinger certainly doesn't think of it that way at the time: when he steps out of the lift on the medical level, and almost runs directly into the very man he's looking for.

"Stinger," Caine says, in his quiet way, all amused surprise. "Where you going in such a hurry?"

"Lookin' for you," Stinger says, and realizes almost belatedly that he's still standing too close, steps back. "Heard you were awake and threatening the CMO."

"Like hell I'm threatening a badger splice, I like my molars where they are," Caine snorts. "I just asked where I could find her majesty, is all. I was polite."

"Not how I heard it," Stinger says, but then he runs out of banter, just stands there, staring at his old lieutenant. " _Void,_ Caine, look at you. You fuckin' made it."

Caine drops his jaw in a canine grin, shows his fangs a little in pleasure and pride. "Thanks to you, old man. Couldn't have done it without you."

"Ah, I still got an inspirational speech or two in me," Stinger says dismissively, but he can't take his eyes away. He told Jupiter plenty of times that Caine was going to be okay - maybe every five minutes, for the better part of an hour, which is how long it took each reassurance to wear off and her to get anxious again, poor girl - but he didn't entirely believe it himself till just now. Sargorn venom is designed to be lethal even to splices - especially splices, as their metabolism spreads the venom faster than it would in a baseline - which is why Lord Balem favors ( _favored,_ hah!) them for his personal guard. Caine should have stopped to get an antivenom shot, but if he had he wouldn't have been able to evacuate Jupiter's family and go back for her majesty. He hid the bite from them because he knew that they'd stop him, and he couldn't risk it. It almost cost him his fuckin' _life,_ and when Jupiter told them that he passed out in evac none of them really thought that Caine would be able to hold on long enough to get the treatment into his bloodstream.

Which just goes to show that betting against Caine's stubbornness is always a losing proposition, because here the bastard stands in front of him, looking a lot more healthy than Stinger feels right now. Stinger would want to punch him for that, if he wasn't so bloody glad to see him.

"Ah, fuck it," he says, and grabs Caine up in a bear hug. Caine stiffens in surprise for a moment, then after a moment's confused hesitation he hugs him back fiercely, squeezing so tight Stinger's ribs ache from the pressure. "You are one lucky son of a bitch," he says into the crook of Caine's neck, and he can feel Caine's grin against his temple.

"Better to be lucky than good, eh?" Caine says, and pulls back, claps both hands on his shoulders, grins down at him. "Isn't that what you always said?"

"Don't go quoting me back at me, you smart-mouthed asshole," Stinger retorts. He allows himself one final squeeze of Caine's biceps before he steps back, puts some distance between them again. "You worried a lot of people, pup."

Caine's grin fades a little, and he nods in acknowledgement. "It was close. But worth it." And before Stinger can say anything else about _that,_ Caine ducks his chin and sniffs. "You were with Jupiter?"

Stinger doesn't believe for a moment that Caine didn't pick up her majesty's scent on him the moment Stinger came into range, but as always, he allows the fiction to pass. "Speaking of people who were worried."

He wonders exactly what Caine is getting off of him - it's always a jumble, what Caine can or can't smell on a person. Does he know the way that Stinger escorted her about the ship like a lordling on one of the trashy entertainment holovids? Can he smell the faint traces of blood and sealant, from where Stinger cradled her fine-boned hand in his own and patched up the place where that mad dog of a royal sliced her open? Can he sense the moment that she slumped against his side in the lift, where for the span of half a minute she gave her weight and her exhaustion to him as trustingly as any child, heedless of his betrayal?

He hopes so. It's a lot bloody easier than trying to put that shit into words. In some ways, he's never really been much better at expressing himself than Caine.

"I was just on my way up to find her," Caine says. "Commander Percadium told me that she was with you up in the mess hall."

"Ten minutes ago, sure, but she's back in her quarters now, going through the cleanser if she has any sense," Stinger says. "She was coated in soot and void knows what-all else. And I told her where to find the bruise stuff, fuck knows she needed it."

Caine rocks up onto his toes, then back onto his heels again. "She was hurt."

"Not as badly as you, but yeah, a bit," Stinger says uncomfortably. He forgot the intensity Caine can give off, when he's focused on something. Vector always called it "a bad case of the crazy eyes," but then Vector was one to fucking talk. "Lord Balem-"

Caine growls. Stinger can't blame him.

"-got in a cut, and a few hits with something heavy. The suit had already sealed it, but I closed up the cut, and hacked the suit's med readings while I was getting us something to drink. No broken bones, no internal bleeding, just some bruising. The cleanser stuff should do the trick."

Caine nods solemnly. "Thanks for looking out for her," he says, gruff but sincere, and the tang of guilt rises at the back of Stinger's throat.

"You should know," he says. "I explained to her about, uh, you. The pack stuff, I mean."

Nothing but a slow blink. "You told her-"

"She asked!" Stinger says, holding his hands out defensively. It really should have come from Caine, not him, but- "I didn't realize you hadn't yet, said something stupid, she wanted to know."

Caine's answering expression is somewhere between frustrated and fond. Mostly fond. "Of course she did, she wants to know everything," he sighs. "Okay, I can work with this, okay." He rocks back on his heels again. "Was she..."

"Upset?" Stinger finishes for him. "Nah, didn't seem to be. A little confused, maybe. Mostly about why you hadn't told her." Despite himself, a hint of accusation creeps into his voice. It _really_ shouldn't have come from him, of all people.

"I was going to," Caine says, less defensively than Stinger would've thought. "After she got her family settled again. Didn't seem to fair to do it before then, put that on her with everything else going on."

Stinger can only shrug. That _was_ a reasonable plan, especially compared to Caine's usual planning skills, but. "Well, she knows now, so..."

"I'm glad you told her, I think," Caine says quietly. "Makes it easier. To see if she wants me to stay."

This is so absurd that Stinger tries and fails to find the words to express it three separate times before he finally gets out, "I don't think that's going to be a problem."

"Maybe," Caine says doubtfully, but he doesn't seem… upset, or worried, particularly. In fact what he mostly looks like is _peaceful,_ which is a word that Stinger would have said previously wasn't even in Caine's vocabulary. Loved the kid, but he used to sleep with his hands curled into fists. His issues had issues.

Maybe it's because of Jupiter, the chemical influence of a proper alpha in his life. Or maybe it's the satisfaction of making a choice for himself at last, after a lifetime of following where others lead. Mostly, though, Stinger thinks it's the peace of the soldier in the middle of an enemy charge: the die is cast, the decision is made, and there's no way out but forward.

Caine made his decision, when he went after Jupiter down on that planet. Stinger doesn't know as much about lycantants as some, but he _does_ know a bit about how the bonding process works: betas choose, always. But once they've chosen, nothing can sever the bond aside from the alpha. And Jupiter, not being lycantant herself, doesn't actually have the capability to sever. Caine didn't just decide for right-now-tomorrow-the-next-day. Caine decided for the rest of his life, however short or long that may be.

"She'll want you to stay, pup," Stinger says, because he can't say the rest. "Trust me."

Too late, he realizes that that might not have been the wisest choice of words, but Caine just grins at him, easy and affectionate. "Always, old man," he says, and gives Stinger's arm a squeeze. "Thanks for taking care of her."

_While I couldn't,_ remains unspoken but clear between them, and it leaves a warm flush from his throat down to his belly, because all he hears is, _and if you fall, someone will catch you._ He and Caine have stepped up and given up and covered up so much for each other in the few short years they served together that it shouldn't feel so different, Caine acknowledging that Stinger had his six when he was down. But it does.

It does.

"It's the least I could do, considering."

"The least you could do is nothing," Caine says, and then huffs his quiet laugh. "Well. The least _anyone_ could do. Maybe not you."

"Aw, shuddup and go look after your girl," Stinger says, and this time Caine doesn't try to deny that she's not 'his' girl. Progress.

Instead, Caine just holds his hand up, closed into a fist. The old 'jacker firefight gesture. Stinger obliges him by bumping their knuckles together, and then Caine covers his fist with his palm - a deviation, coverage was always captain's privilege, but then Caine probably ranks him now, doesn't he? - and gives him the closest thing to a devilish grin he's ever seen on the kid's face.

"Try to actually get some sleep," Caine advises, and then his hand drops away and he brushes past Stinger into the lift.

The lift doors are almost closed before Stinger recovers from the effects of that grin enough to shout, "Oi! You try and let her majesty do the same!"

"Shut up, Stinger!" Caine shouts back through the closed doors, and then the lift whooshes away. Stinger smirks to himself and heads down the hallway towards the comms room. Tomorrow they'll get her majesty's family back to their lives, and Stinger will probably go back to face a court-martial. But for tonight, at least, all is right in the world, and he wants to call his daughter.

###### 

For Stinger, though, where it really starts is here: in the middle of the Noxos spaceport, when he's sitting at the big group terminal, waiting for the big system-hopper that's already three hours late. He was hoping that he could catch a ride back to Earth on the _Defiant_ , but Captain Tsing concluded her business two days ago while he was still recovering from the implant repair, and he's stuck using public transport like all the other poor slobs. He hunches his shoulder down into the thin canvas coat he's wearing and mantles his wings tighter around his body. Fuck, it's cold out here. He doesn't run hot like the mammal splices do, has to suffer through at human-normal.

"Stinger! Ey, Sting!"

Stinger jerks his drooping head up to see Caine making his way through the crowd, a duffel hoisted across his shoulder, his wings tucked tight behind him to avoid jostling against the rest of the crowd. Not that it's much of a worry for him. Caine's not really the tallest or the strongest of the skyjackers, and a lot less of both than he'd be if his splice had taken properly, but fuck if he doesn't tend to clear his way through a crowd anyway, like people can just sense him coming from a mile away and decide to make the smart choice and move first. Dumb bastard never seemed to notice either, and he doesn't now, like people getting out of your way when you walk is something totally right and natural in his world. Probably is, for him.

_Fuck,_ Stinger thinks. After the trial, he never expected to see Caine again. Having him crash back into his life was bad enough, but after Orus, he figured he'd be back in front of a tribunal before he'd ever have to worry about facing his old lieutenant. It didn't work out that way, of course. But despite the fact that Captain Tsing dropped them both off on Noxus to process their reinstatement, it never really occurred to him that he might run into Caine here.

It probably should have. Maybe if he'd thought about it, he'd've been a little more prepared for the sight of Caine striding towards him, those glorious black-and-gold wings trailing once more from his shoulders.

"Thought I smelled you," Caine says when he reaches the bench Stinger's claimed as his own - as if there's nothing strange about that, being able to scent a single person across a quarter-mile of densely-packed bodies and machinery. Stinger can barely even smell _himself_ in this fucking mess _._ "The hell are you doing out here?"

Despite himself, Stinger gives him a look that just says, _Don't be stupid, pup._ It's a look he used to give Caine all the time. Lotta water under the bridge since then, though. Probably not right to do it now, but Caine doesn't seem to take it personally. If anything, the tense line of his shoulders eases a little.

"Waiting for transport."

"What for?" Caine says. He spares a glance towards the wings tucked tight around Stinger's shoulders, then looks away again. Stinger would have to blind not to see the relief on his handsome face. "I thought you were hopping a ride back with Captain Tsing." The angle of his jaw goes stubborn, and he shifts to cross his arms over his chest. "They didn't leave you behind, did they?"

Still protective, even after everything. Fuck. "Implants took a little longer this time," Stinger says, fighting the urge to rub at the phantom ache in the back of his neck. He's not twenty years old anymore; and he's having a harder time adjusting to the weight of the wings than he remembers. "I was still in recovery when Captain Tsing wrapped up her business here. She left two days ago."

He's about eighty percent certain that she didn't leave early _just_ to leave him behind. He's one hundred percent certain that it was a pleasurable side benefit, however.

"So you're just taking public transit? Why the hell didn't you tell me?" Caine looks honestly exasperated with him, like Stinger's done something foolish that needs to be corrected. It's strange seeing his own expressions mirrored back at him, Stinger thinks distantly. "You're lucky I noticed you before I left. C'mon, follow me."

"I've got a ticket, thanks," Stinger says through gritted teeth. Having Caine offer to buy him transport is the kind of humiliation he probably deserves, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it.

"Ticket?" Caine tilts his head in a gesture that looks more wolflike than he probably realizes, and then the faintest edge of a smirk twitches at the corners of his mouth. "Unlike you, old man, I didn't get stuck in the recovery unit for three days. I've had time to wrap up some business."

It's surprisingly good to hear Caine teasing him again. When Caine showed up at his door, all twitchy nerves, too-fast reflexes, and blank face, it was like a second slap in the face. Better than dead, anything's better than dead, but not much better. Caine was never the most demonstrative sort, quiet and reserved at the best of times, but he didn't used to look like he was hanging onto his own humanity by the skin of his teeth, either.

Of course, that was before the kid started bonding to an alpha. Even now, several days on a different planet, Stinger can still catch a whiff of her majesty on him.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"I got us a ship."

He just- "With what fucking money?" Stinger demands. Lycantants have shorter gene-debts than other splices, since they don't choose that life, but it's not like _either_ of them ever had much credit to spare. And Caine's been living in the fuckin' Deadlands for a few years. Not much coin out there, that's for fuckin' sure.

Caine huffs at him. "With Her Majesty's inheritance?" he says, like Stinger's being purposefully obtuse. "She said she wanted presents. A ship was mentioned specifically."

Of course it fucking was. You've got to admire that about the bastard, Stinger thinks with something between bitterness and admiration, how Caine always lands on his feet. Took a death sentence and rolled up a couple years later with a fucking queen as his alpha. Because of course he did.

"Right," Stinger says, and hauls himself to his feet. He doesn't like the thought of having to take the charity of a man he's betrayed, but he's not going to turn down the offer, either. His pride isn't worth much against the idea of being able to see his daughter sooner. "Lead the way."

Caine grins at him, actually full-on grins, and grabs his shoulder for a brief squeeze before turning and striding off to the east gate. Stinger follows a little dumbly, the phantom feeling of that short contact slow to fade. Since when does Caine touch people willingly? Oh, he would always accept a handshake or a slap on the back with good enough grace, but he never reached out, never made contact first if it was something that could be avoided. It was always a bit of a running joke in their unit, though one that everyone took care to keep from Caine's ears. _More like a cat than a dog,_ everyone always said, but it was just one of those things, you know, like how Mischa could sleep through artillery fire, or how Red would eat his portion in ten seconds and start eyeing everyone else's plate. Not a lycantant thing, just a Caine-quirk. He doesn't like being touched.

Except he just touched Stinger. And easy, like it was nothing. Is this what Caine's like now that he's got a proper alpha? How badly had Stinger crippled him before, then, by not being what the kid needed?

_Useless thoughts, old man,_ he tells himself. They're nothing new, really. He always knew that he wasn't the best commander for someone like Caine, but Caine had passed up every unit reassignment that had come his way, stubbornly loyal like the beast he was spliced from. Stinger had a lot of reason to regret that, after the trial - but not always for the reason that Caine thought. That Stinger let him think.

_Should probably tell him that at some point,_ Stinger thinks. But later. Much later. Preferably while drunk.

The ship that Caine leads him to is a sleek little beast, designed to carry a squad of soldiers, maybe two if they were really friendly, just barely big enough to have a warp drive. "Legion surplus?"

Caine nods proudly, holds up his hand to the security panel. "Had a busted converter, but the manufacturer is in the middle of a feud with one of the families, so they've got an embargo on supplying the Legion. I'm a private citizen acting on behalf of a royal, so I was able to get the part through customs. Legion sold it for a song since they needed the bay for something they could actually fly."

Stinger just shakes his head. It's always been baffling to him, the way that Caine thinks that he's bad with people, when you drop him in the middle of a base and he'll be trading favors within days. With a scowl on his face the whole time, probably, but still. People actually tend to like Caine - not that he ever really noticed. 

The ship finishes the security scan and chirps in greeting as the door opens. "Welcome, Wise, Lieutenant Caine." Stinger obligingly follows suit while Caine waits, not really wanting to encounter a Legion security field, and it chirps again a moment later. "Welcome, Apini, Captain Stinger."

"Still has the old Legion idents on it," Caine says over his shoulder as he strides up the ramp. "It's proving strangely stubborn about accepting a record edit. Maybe you can take a look at it, you were always better with that shit."

Being fair, it isn't hard to be better than Caine at programming. He's among the top-five of pilots that Stinger knows (not counting himself, of course), he's a dab hand with low-atmo engines and he's an absolute demon on the wing, but put a string of code in front of him and he starts looking at you like you're punishing him. "I'll see what I can do."

They both drop their duffel bags into the storage bins, Caine's making a considerably louder thump than his. Stinger narrows his eyes at it, wondering just what sort of "presents" Caine is bringing back for the new royal… and then gets distracted when Caine nudges ahead a little so that he can get to the pilot's seat first. "You think you fly better than me, now, pup?"

Caine shoots him a little sideways glance that's his version of a smirk. "I dunno, old man. Your reflexes might be going."

"They worked well enough to kick your fucking ass!"

Caine scoffs. "Not like I was really fighting back. I was trying to _talk_ to you, you stubborn old bastard."

"Oh, is that the excuse you're going with?" He feints a jab at the side of Caine's head. Caine just ducks away and knocks Stinger's hand away with a lazy flick of his wing. "And you're such a good pilot you, what, got through those warhammers by your own damn self?"

"Okay, okay," Caine says, chuffing a little half-laugh, and leans sideways, letting Stinger clamber past him to take the co-pilot's seat. "I admit it. You're the best in the air. No contest."

"Damn straight," Stinger growls, wriggling a little to seat his wings properly around the back of the chair. The tip of his right one bumps against Caine's in the space between their seats, but that's always been fair game. Cockpits aren't exactly roomy, and you never think of the wings are being _really_ part of your body.

Until they're gone, anyway.

"But it's my ship," Caine says, and pointedly does up his straps. "So I get to fly."

"I don't think it works like that," Stinger says. "Also, it's not your ship. It's her majesty's."

"It's mine for the next six hours," Caine says, and keys up the engine. "Close enough."

Stinger busies himself running preflight checks while Caine pings for clearance, and a couple minutes later they're through atmo and heading towards the planet-void, looking for a safe window to warp. Noxus is a major hub, for Legion and trade both, and Caine has to pull up to a halt and wait a minute once they get aligned on the correct trajectory.

Caine waits in silence, like he always does, happier in the quiet than he is in conversation. Stinger takes the time to steal a sideways glance or two at him, subtle enough to pass thanks to years of practice. He hasn't really had a chance to get a look in at his old lieutenant since Caine crashed back into his life. Too busy punching him in the face, sealing his wounds, and stabbing him in the back, Stinger thinks wryly. But looking at him now, Stinger realizes that Caine's looking pretty good for a man who just came in from the black. Healthy, fit, and well-fed, and now Stinger can add _happy_ to the list, which is a look he's unsure he's ever really seen on Caine. Or maybe _settled_ is a better word. Caine's always been one to hold himself still, but that was training rather than inclination, and it was a violent sort of stillness that always _wanted_ to be motion. Now Caine's sitting easy behind the pilot's controls, apparently unbothered by the delay. Maybe a little eagerness in the twitch of his fingers, but no impatience.

"So," he says. Caine twitches one pointed ear in his direction, but doesn't actually turn. "You're taking the ship back to her majesty."

Caine does slide him a small, sideways glance at that. "Isn't like you not to just ask."

And, well, that's fair, so Stinger takes a deep breath and does. "You going to stay on Earth?"

"Are you?" Caine shoots back. He nods to the wings folded down to fit in the cockpit. "You can't tell me the Legion wouldn't have you back in a heartbeat."

Maybe. As far as he can tell, Captain Tsing kept his arrest and subsequent release out of the official record, and even so, the pardons Jupiter brought back from Titus covered all crimes retroactively till the moment he sealed them, which included Stinger's betrayal by about six hours. There's no formal impediment for him to return to the skyjackers, maybe even back to his old rank. And yet.

Rumor travels fast. And even if they were to welcome him… How could he go back? He signed up for the 'jackers the day he reached majority, and even with Kiza he never really lived any other life. But the last few years, being out of action… It's not like his actual skills have atrophied. Breaking into Titus's cruiser proved that. But he doesn't know that he has it in him to sign himself over like that. Not anymore.

"Kiza won't be able to go off-planet till the quarantine is up," he says, which is true. "Aegis says that they'll keep me on as a Marshall for that long, at least. After that… who knows?"

Caine nods thoughtfully. "The 'jackers offered to let me re-enlist. Full reinstatement and a promotion to specialist rank."

Stinger isn't surprised. Before his trial, Caine was famous in the Legion and beyond for his skills as a tracker, and after, well, if he survived his time in the Deadlands it's not like he's going to have gotten _worse_ in a fight. The Legion would be a fool to pass him up.

"You going to take it?"

Caine snorts. "Jupiter's on Earth. What would be the point?"

It's not like he didn't know - he was the one who urged Caine to go after his alpha, after all - but hearing Caine say it so easily is nevertheless startling. It's not like Stinger ever doubted Caine's loyalty or affection for him, particularly, but Caine doesn't just _say_ things like that. Or, well, he didn't. Apparently that's another thing a proper alpha can do for him that Stinger never could.

"That's… good," he says, a little weakly. Caine casts him a slightly wary sideways glance.

"You think it's a problem?"

Bad at talking to people, but rarely bad at reading them. Stinger always managed to forget that. "No," he says, and it's true, after all, so he adds, "You're lucky. Luckier than most."

"Because she's a royal."

"No, because you found her." Stinger purses his lips and looks at the ceiling of the cockpit so he doesn't have to look over at Caine. "You told me once that a lycantant who achieves majority on their own is no longer capable of producing bonding hormones."

"Yeah, but I'm a freak." For the first time, Caine sounds almost happy about it. "Don't worry. I know how lucky I am."

"As long as she knows how lucky she is to get you," Stinger adds.

Caine ducks his chin to fiddle with something one the console, but Stinger can see the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile. "She said something like that."

"Then there you go," Stinger says, and risks a clap on his shoulder. It's not something he normally would have done, before, but this is new-and-improved Caine, and if he was willing to reach out first then it's probably fine for Stinger to do the same. "You've done good, pup."

Even in the low light, Stinger can see the back of Caine's neck pink up a little. "Thanks. Means a lot, coming from you."

Stinger clears throat. Caine always did manage to get to him like this; come out with these moments of absolute honesty just when you least expect it. "Yeah, well." He looks away. "If you ever need any pointers about living on a tercies world, don't ask me. They haven't even figured out fusion engines. Barbarians."

"Don't worry, old man, you know I'd ask Kiza anyway." Caine shifts and resettles, and when the leading edge of his wing brushes Stinger's shoulder, it _might_ be an accident. But somehow Stinger doubts it. "It'll be good to be where I belong. Don't you think?"

Stinger is not Caine, to long for a pack and an alpha, nor even such a slave to his own instincts to search for a queen. He has a family already, small though it may be. He will regret betraying Caine and Jupiter to his dying day, but he'd do it again for Kiza's life.

And yet he can't help the wisp of jealousy that curls through him at Caine's words. Has he ever, truly, belonged anywhere?

Luckily, the onboard computer chimes before Stinger is required to come up with a response. "You have clearance to warp, Lieutenant Wise," it announces, in the dulcet, neutral tones of every Legion ship. Just enough emotion to be lively, but not enough to seem quite human. There were problems, back in the day, of pilots who'd go space sick, too long out in the black, and get too attached to their own computer systems. Some psyops type likely made more money than Stinger will ever see in his life figuring out the correct balance. "Your clearance will last for two minutes, and then you will re-enter queue."

"Nah, I'm ready," Caine tells it. He glances over at Stinger. "You good?"

"Never better," Stinger lies, and then Caine takes them into the void between the stars.

###### 

Caine drops him off directly at the farmhouse when they get to Earth. He doesn't disembark himself, all but vibrating with eagerness to get to the city, to get to his alpha, and Stinger doesn't take offense. He wouldn't pick his company over the lovely Jupiter Jones, either.

Kiza's waiting for him at the doorstep, and he takes his time coming up the front walk, just drinking in the sight of his daughter, aglow with warmth and perspiration in the heavy August sun. He sees her wave at something over his shoulder, and twists to see Caine giving them both a lazy, ironic salute, and then the ship cloaks and hums away. Stinger isn't really thinking about that anymore, though. He's too busy scooping his little girl into his arms and hugging her close, pressing his nose against the joint of her neck. She smells like soap and pollen and sweat, and most of all she smells _healthy,_ no wasting sickness underneath. His baby. She's going to live.

"Hey, da," she says, gentle, like she maybe understands. And then- "Okay now you're just crushing me."

Reluctantly, he lets her slide back to her feet, and she pushes one long lock of hair behind her ear and squints up at him. "You look terrible," she declares.

He snorts. Yeah, that's his girl. "Thanks for that, honey."

"But these look okay," she says, and runs her hand over the crest of his right wing, smoothing a couple ruffled feathers back into place as she goes. "Almost forgot what you looked like with 'em."

So did Stinger. He's spent the last few days startling every time he looks in the mirror. The weight he's starting to adjust to, if slower than the first time around, but the sight of them is constantly startling. He keeps catching sight of them out of the corner of his eye and thinking that there's someone else in the room with him.

Ah, well, he'll get used to them again. Strange it may be, but at least he's whole. A gift unlooked for, and all the more welcome for it.

Especially considering what he did.

"You complaining?" he says, and folds his wings back down, as tight as they'll go. He could put a human coat on over them and you wouldn't be able to tell unless you ran a hand down his back. If he really needs to pass for human, he can absorb them back down to the implants, but it's uncomfortable and takes a few minutes. One of the advantages of living this far out into the country is that mostly he doesn't have to bother.

"Eh, bring 'em back," Kiza protests, and smiles when he spreads them wide. "They're beautiful, da," she says, and his throat closes tight at the happiness in her voice.

"Yeah, well, better get used to them," he says, and slings an arm across her shoulders, tucks his wing around her for good measure. Already he feels better, to be standing in his own garden, listening to the drone of his hives, his daughter's heartbeat. He feels like himself again, like the things he's done over the last week didn't entirely happen.

_But they did,_ he reminds himself. He can't forget that. He can't be sorry for how it worked out, not any of it, but it's not really an excuse, either. He can't forget what he did. When Caine ruined his life, he did it in a moment of pure, blind instinct, and he would have stopped Stinger from following him if he could, Stinger knows. But Stinger made the choice to sell him and the young queen to Titus Abrasax. He knows exactly what sort of man that makes him.

The fact that his daughter is still here, alive and willing to stay in his home, is kindness enough. He won't look for anything else in his life.

He's maybe silent for too long, because Kiza tilts her head back so that she can meet his eyes. He can't see anything there but sympathy. "C'mon, old man," says his funny-wise daughter, using Caine's nickname for him with a deliberate smile. "Let's get you inside." She tugs at his coat sleeve. "You're not exactly dressed for the heat."

"Probably a good idea," he admits. "Maybe something cold to drink."

"Made some lemonade fresh," she says cheerily, and guides him into the house. He can't quite make himself let go of her, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"You're my favorite," he says fervently, and she laughs in that husky, mocking way of hers that lets him know that she's growing up too fast, that he's not going to have her with him for much longer. Long enough, though.

"Oh, I know," she says, and hugs him tight.

Long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> And now, at long last, I'm _actually_ done.
> 
> This was originally meant to be the prologue of a much longer sequel story, but since I only barely scraped together these three years after the original, I did some editing and cleaned this up as a standalone. And as for what happens after the credits roll... All I'll say is that if Stinger thought that Caine's capable of letting go of the only family he's ever had - or, for that matter, that Jupiter would just forget about the only other one to treat her like a person as well as a royal - well, he's been wrong plenty of times before. He should be getting used to it by now.


End file.
